Insomnia, Dearest
by Creepsandfreakshows
Summary: One shot. Written for a roleplay. AU/6th year. Grayson Wood takes a nighttime stroll. Rated M for language. Grayson Wood/Damien Richards.


Grayson couldn't sleep. He tried, had been trying for hours, but sleep would not come. His eyes were heavy, dark half-moons encircling them, and yet they would not stay shut for longer than half an hour. He rubbed at them, internally ignoring the voice telling him that doing so wasn't good for him, that he was risking a vitreous or retinal detachment and impacted vision. He didn't want to hear that voice. That stupid voice.

He rolled over once more, pulled his pillow over his face and muffled his grumble with it so he didn't disturb his roommates. Normally he didn't mind the lack of privacy, but right now he really wished he was alone. He wanted them all out and far, far away from him. He didn't want any of them near him. Nobody but - no. Not him especially. Send him halfway across the world, where the distance would be at its largest and maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't feel the need to close that distance.

Fuck.

He shook his head and finally pushed himself out of bed, ignoring the sudden jolt of cold that chilled him from his toes to the top of his head when he placed his feet on the floor. Damn everything to hell. He ignored his cloak, instead pulling his duvets around his shoulders and silently, probably the quietest he'd ever been upon exiting the common room, made his way out into the many corridors of the castle. Once upon a time this would've bothered him. The quiet, the darkness, the eerie way everything looked so much bigger when there weren't students swarming everywhere.

And so he walked. He let his feet carry him while his mind drifted off. He was irritated and annoyed. So very annoyed. He couldn't get his head on straight. The only good that he seemed to be experiencing right now was that his feet were good on autopilot, because he sure as hell wasn't thinking about where he placed his feet.

Step, step, step. Walking was easy, methodical. He worked much better when he was actually doing something rather than not. Immobility was maddening, and it didn't do anything other than make him jittery and a lot more anxious. Anxiousness didn't mix well with Grayson's well-being, for he tended to fret and obsess and worry himself sick. Which was exactly how we find him now.

He glanced up at his surroundings, surprised to have found himself standing outside the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower. He wasn't particularly listening, but he was aware that the door knocker was reciting to him the riddle that needed to be answered were he to be granted entry. He glared at it as if it were the sole reason he was awake and irritated. But no. It wasn't the knocker. It wasn't even his feet or the person concealed in the tower (as far as he knew; he could've been walking about the castle as well) that was at fault. It was himself, his own subconsciousness, that had led him there. Even when he wasn't thinking about him, or whatever the fuck was going on between them, he found himself wanting to be with him. Near him. In the same space with him. Breathe the same air.

Now, even though he knew it wasn't wise to continue standing there in the silence while the knocker awaited his answer, he had to think it over in his mind about whether or not he was going to continue on his way. It was a difficult choice, and only added more to the confusion in his brain that had caused his insomnia. He could officially call it that; he wasn't sleeping well. Hadn't been for over a fortnight.

Fuck.

Stupid. He was so stupid. He couldn't go inside, shouldn't. Won't. He reached up to run his hand over the surface of the knocker, then forced himself to keep putting one foot in front of the other. See you later, Ravenclaw Tower. He shivered, and pulled the duvets tighter around his shoulders. His head was getting fuzzy again, and he really wished he had a place to lie down. Instead, he found that same bench he'd taken Tessa to when he frightened her half to death. He knew that if Damien had known he'd skipped class to comfort her, he would've called him an idiot and told him he'd wasted his time. He quietly laughed to himself as he sat down, leaning against the stone walls for support and pulled his feet up.

His sleep befuddled mind kept returning to his personal source of ire. Okay, maybe ire was a bit of an exaggeration, but in his mind he was allowed to exaggerate as much as he fucking pleased. And he very well pleased.

Damien. Who was Damien Richards? He was a sixth year Ravenclaw with an affinity for breaking into places and a slight superiority complex. Grayson grinned. He would probably deny it, but Grayson knew how much he belittled people. They were simple, easily taken advantage of, easily forgotten. He had a way of reading people, judging their characters and stripping them apart with just a few words. He was intelligent, so very intelligent, and just thinking about that made him let out deep breath he hadn't known he was holding. Fuck him. He was also an idiot. And a drama king. And quiet. And stupid.

What stuck with him, though, was that even though their first encounter hadn't been all that great, and even after he'd pestered him incessantly, gets called an idiot, is given that 'look' - the one that he interpreted as him thinking he'd done something incredibly stupid - continuously, he was never asked to leave. He let him stay. He didn't think he was easily forgotten. He answered all of his annoying owls, put up with him over the summers, accepted his scatterbrained siblings' company when it was forced upon him.

He appreciated that. He'd always been so alone before then. His default had been going to his twin. He used to rant to her, join her outrageous conversations, agree to be her canvas piece and listen to her ramble about how this colour meant this letter of the alphabet and how this colour, and this and this and this and this and this colour all spelt out her name in this order just for someone to hang out with. Don't get him wrong, he loved his sister and would do all that and so much more, but he didn't feel like he had no other option anymore. He still ranted to her, still let her paint on him, but no longer as an outlet for not wanting to be alone. He had Damien now.

Unfortunately, he couldn't even make himself drift off on the bench, so he made himself get up again and resum his walk. Perhaps he might even walk the whole castle. Or find himself in the Astronomy tower and walk right off the edge. That'd make his mind stop, no doubt. But no, after what felt like no time had elapsed at all, he was at the entrance to the kitchens. He stopped and stared. He wasn't hungry. He was tired and wanted to punch something.

Well, perhaps he did need something to chew on, and a cup of tea. Or coffee. He tickled the pear on the portrait and was greeted by the elves in less than no time. They were ready to prepare him a feast, but he waved off those offers with a small shake of his head. He, indeed, asked for a cup of tea and something sweet. That something sweet ended up being an entire raspberry cake with cream cheese frosting and fruit topping. He shook his head, but ate dutifully.

Damien never ate like this. Did he even enjoy snacks? Ever want something sweet, or crave a favourite food? It bothered him sometimes, his lack of appetite, probably more than it should because his own appetite was large and not easily satiated. He understood that his appetite had been curbed very young, as his mother, bless her, was not a very good cook. He knew this first hand by how often Caprice sent him samples of her cooking. He couldn't for the life of him tell her anything less than that he absolutely loved them and that he wanted more. He didn't know how, but he survived on them during the summers.

Last summer was great. He'd spoken with Jon and realised he'd been fretting over nothing. He'd been worried the man harboured ill feelings toward him for destroying an imperative... thingsomethingorother he'd put together in the middle of their house. But it had threaded through every room and, really, how was he expected not to touch it? Thankfully, that wasn't the case, and in fact, his stupid blunder had given him reason to make it better. He'd made certain to steer waaaay clear of this one, even when insisted to have a look at it.

He hadn't been very hungry when he'd entered the kitchen, so it didn't take him long to grow tired of the place. He told the elves to save the rest for him later on that same day, and they assured him that he'd have enough to keep him happy for as long as he would ever need. He thanked them graciously - he never felt like he did enough for them as it was - and left them to their tasks he so rudely, not that they'd show it, interrupted.

So he was walking through the halls again, full and warm, thanks to his comforter, and soon found himself in the room where Damien had petrified him in. Without much prompting, his feet led him inside, retracing his footsteps from that awful confrontation. His mind was already replaying the scene in his mind. Damien asking if he'd planned to keep him there until he spoke to him, and then his angry response that he couldn't do with him as he wanted, couldn't treat him like an object. Except that at this moment in time, he could feel himself now contradicting the Grayson from the past, the stupid one who didn't know what he did now, the Grayson who wasn't currently yearning for just a single glance from- No. Stop that.

He'd wanted to check on him when he came to this room. He'd wanted to see how he was doing and if he could do anything to help him. He wanted to be a friend, and the only thing he got out of it was that the past!Damien had thought he was clingy and that he drove people away from him and that people 'got sick of him', that he didn't know the meaning of personal space. It had hurt him. Even now he felt that cold in the pit of his stomach, but it wasn't because of Damien's words, no. It was because of the words he'd given to him in return, wrapped up in one of his famous word vomit spiels. He'd called him a robot, basically told him he didn't deserve friends, and was unappreciative. He'd goaded him, told him to make good on his threats to hex him into oblivion. But he didn't.

He walked over to the table he'd initially been sitting on, stared at the place Damien had been standing, and he could even envision him going through the motions of his previous self. That's how good his mental picture of him was. Except that it seemed like a dull after-thought when compared to the real thing, because the real Damien was beautiful.

His eyes were a lovely brown, shaped like almonds. His nose was straight, features strong and sharp. His mouth looked a little big for him, but that just made him look more interesting, and don't even get him started on his cheekbones and jawline. Fuck. If he'd tried for more than his one expression, it would be obvious how animated his face was. And here Grayson allowed himself another small laugh. Of course Damien had more than one expression. He'd seen him laugh, he'd seen him in moments where his eyes narrowed and the intensity of the moment flashed in his eyes. A lot of times, that intensity had been unsettling, but at the same time, it wasn't. It was weird trying to describe it, but he was oddly drawn and wary of some of his expressions.

Luckily, for him, he spent enough time around him that he could read the general feel of his moods. He could usually tell when it was okay for him to say something stupid and talk at whim or when he needed to keep his peace. That didn't mean he held his tongue all the time, though. Damien called him an idiot for a reason, and he had right to do so. His impulsiveness and inability to think things through rationally before he committed to them was one of his most awful characteristics. And yet he didn't fault him for them.

_Fuck._

He rubbed his sore eyes once more - shut up, voice - and yawned into his blankets. He should probably head to bed now, try to sleep, make use of the rest of the night with what it was made for. Or so he'd been told when he was younger. It had only made him want to get out of bed even more than before they told him. But he couldn't waste a night like this. It was calming. He was still irritated out of his mind, but at least the silence and openness was a relief. He didn't feel claustrophobic anymore, like he was trapt in a small room with no windows or doors.

Just thinking about it made him shiver, and he was soon making his way through the door again. Out of the room, out in the open, out of the hallways and into the open courtyard. He made sure to keep his duvets from dragging on the ground. It was nice outside, but chilly. He wouldn't be able to stand it for too long, but right now it wasn't so bad. What was his goal? What did he hope to achieve by needless distraction? It never lasted long, because even now he found himself wondering what Damien had done today, why he hadn't shown up for class and what he found much more important than accompanying him to the Great Hall. He'd still answered his owls, though. He wondered if he suddenly decided to go up to the Owlery, if he would get a reply to a sloppily written note. Nonsense. Nothing important. What if he'd just written 'Hi', would he be ignored?

But again, what would be the point? Why did he feel like he needed that attention? Why did he go out of his way just to find out? He didn't know. And, now that he thought about it, the elusive answer was probably what was causing him so much problems at the moment. Why? Why, why, why? A thousand times why? He felt his features draw in, his brows furrowed, eyes down, mouth thinned. What did he want?

He let out a heavy sigh as he leaned against a tree, idly counting the butts of long-forgotten cigarettes that had helped to relieve several of his classmates. Was it worth it? Was lighting up a cancer stick really all it was made out to be? Did it really get rid of all the troubles of the universe and help you relax? Well, whatever the case, he was really tempted to try one. He'd never had the want to, not like he had with alcohol, or partying, or to just make the biggest fool out of himself that he could for no reason at all. No, to him, they were useless. None of his friends should smoke. Damien shouldn't smoke. It would alter his smell and make his already awful eating habits more scarce than they already were. He decided that if he were to ever find him doing so, he would put a stop to it. No questions asked.

Stop thinking about him. He put a hand over his face and pulled his bottom lip into his mouth. What did he want? What was Damien to him? He was his best friend. He was the person he went to when he needed something. Advice. Help. Reasoning smacked into his brain. He wanted his wisdom, wanted him to look out for him. He wanted him to keep him from doing something stupid one day that he might regret. He wanted him to keep him sane. He wanted him near, wanted him close, wanted him in his life. He wanted to hold on to whatever it was that they had and cling to it for dear life. He'd almost lost it once, and since then he'd been in fear of losing it again. He never wanted that to happen.

Wetness on his cheek startled him, and he was surprised to find that it had started to sprinkle. This only irritated him more. He enjoyed the scent of rain normally, but right now he wasn't feeling it. He was tired and cranky and just wanted to go to sleep. Maybe the rain would help him with that later, but he had been in the middle of an intense thought pattern, and now he was thrown off. It wasn't too much to ask for a little time to think, was it? He didn't think so. Fuck the rain, fuck the weather, fuck the open courtyard. Fuck everything.

He tiptoed his way slowly across the stones, using one for each foot until he made it across, grumbling as he pulled his duvets even closer. It was a feeble attempt, warding off any of the wetness the light rain threatened to throw at him through the fabric. He had to stop thinking about it, lest he find reason to think even it was poking fun at him. The sound of the rain hitting the ground only intensified once he'd found cover, and even as he was putting distance between it and himself, the sound still echoed in his ears. It gave the illusion that it was raining on the floor above him rather than the castle-top several stories up. He had another moment of annoyance when he pictured those cartoon rain clouds he'd seen before on those muggle newspapers, following him and his foul mood about the halls. There you have it; Grayson Wood couldn't even take insomnia seriously.

As often as he took to the halls in the middle of the night, he had to wonder what the professors and Filch were up to that he hardly ever got caught. Granted, they needed their sleep as well, but the curfew was in place for a reason. He wasn't going to complain about it, obviously, but he was starting to think the school was getting lax. He and Damien should've gotten in way more trouble than they had over the years. Sure, he still had plenty of detentions, but he was sure the teachers could find a way to squeeze more into his already limited free time. They were tricky with that, at least.

He counted each step of the staircase up to the Hospital Wing. Everything was cleaner in this part of the castle, and he was certain the matron of the nurse ward had something to do with that. It was also much quieter and seemed a thousand times more empty. Funny how he was starting to notice the little things when he was sure he could collapse at any moment. But something in him just couldn't keep him from going on.

Step, step, step; one, two, three. There we go, methodical helps all. He let his mind blank for a little bit, allowed his feet to carry him wherever they wanted, and although he was slightly put off that they wanted to go up several flights of stairs, at least he didn't have to put in much effort. Save muscle strength and several deep breaths of air to get there, but still. He glanced around at the new scenery, twitching his nose when a flash of feathers flew past his nose. So he _had_ made it to the Owlery.

Time and distance seemed to blur, and there was paper in his hand. And a quill. Perhaps he'd send a letter to Adriana, see if she was similarly caught up in a sleepless night. He could give her some company. He was still trying to piece together what he wanted to say to her when the owl had already taken off. What had he said to her? He knew he hadn't given a name to the little ball of feathers. He didn't have long to wait, as the bird returned promptly. He pulled the reply from the owl's leg and offered it a small chocolate drop he found after some fiddling in his pockets.

'Finishing an essay.' Essay? Adriana didn't ess- that wasn't Adriana's writing. He furrowed his brows again and flipped the paper over. Apparently all he'd written was 'Hey'. He smiled to himself as he tucked the paper into his pocket. He hadn't been ignored. He didn't bother sending another owl asking where he was, he wanted to see if he could chance upon him. If he was supposed to see Damien tonight - this morning? - then he would.

But what then? What would he do? What did he want to do? Well, right now he just wanted to find him. He wanted to be accepted into his company and be allowed to stay. He wanted to sit next to him while he worked on his essay. Funnily enough, there weren't any essays that were due this week. He must be working on old homework. He wouldn't bother him, wouldn't ask him which subject he'd kept in wait, wouldn't distract him. Or would he? Half the time when Damien was in the same room while he was attempting to concentrate on anything, he was drawn in his direction. He would glance up continuously in an attempt to catch his eye, and grin like an idiot when he succeeded. He would see how many times he could make it happen. He wanted to catch his eye. He wanted to catch it and hold it and make him smile. He knew how childish it was, he would say the same to any one of his friends if they told him the same thing, but he couldn't help it. He wanted those little moments.

Even when Damien didn't indulge him, he liked to study him. Liked to follow the curve of his neck as he bent over his work, liked the face he made when he was trying to word something just right, but the 'right' just wouldn't come, liked the way he ran his fingers through his hair when he wasn't productive enough. Hell, he even liked being told off when he was caught doing it. He would grin at him, assure him it wouldn't happen again, and start over right from the beginning. He wondered what Damien thought when that happened. Wondered if he liked it, too.

What else would he like? Would he mind, even? Would it bother him if, when he was completely and utterly fascinated, he'd reached across the table, rested his hand over his? If he ran the backs of his fingers against that gracefully curved neck? Would he be aggravated, tell him to knock it off? Or would he be still, let him come closer, let him lean against him, bury his face against his chest? He wanted him to. Let him, that is. He wanted to stroke his face, press his lips to the delicate skin just below where his ear connected. Would he want it, too?

F u c k.

Don't do this to yourself, Grayson, don't be foolish. He didn't want that. He indulged you to shut you up. Gave in to make you stop pestering him. He never actually claimed interest. The only time he initiated anything was when... he was a girl. He'd halted his progress and took notice of the brightness of the room, even before the sun began to rise. He was in the trophy room. This wasn't one of their rooms... but it could become one, just as quickly as the Potions Master's storage closet had. They could argue about which House or who deserved this trophy more, why that medal should've never existed, and how there should be a trophy specifically made for incredibly stupid decisions, and which one of them would deserve it more. The trophy room could be theirs, too.

Since it wasn't, yet, he backed out of the room and kept going. The problem with distraction was that the problem would always come back again. What was the problem? Damien didn't want him. He wasn't interested. Didn't like guys. Was only his friend. The world was cruel that way, but he knew without a doubt that he wasn't the only one. Somewhere, scattered throughout the globe, there were other unlucky people who fel- developed feelings for their best friends. What kind of feelings was what he was having trouble with. What did he feel for him, what did he want to feel for him, and who decided that he should even have them at all?

It was unfair. Everything was unfair, and the only thing that he could really come to any conclusions about was that the human mind was quite masochistic. Why else would he be awake right now, wandering the halls, unable to shut up his incessant thought-rambling? And he was almost certain he was the only one alive who could use that as an actual term, because he didn't even make sense to himself sometimes. And then he blamed Damien. Blame Damien for all the things. And he could, really, because he was the reason for him being awake. His entire existence, his reason for being, was to drive him mad. And he liked it. Another supportive reason for the mind being masochistic.

He wanted him. Merlin, fuck, he wanted him, okay? He admitted it. He wanted him to himself, wanted to hold his hand, wanted to hug him without fear that he might be pushed away, that he had every right to. Most of all, he wanted to know that this wasn't all one-sided. He didn't want to mention it, though; not when the answer had a higher probability of him being rejected. He knew that Damien hardly ever took him seriously. He hardly took himself seriously, either, so he couldn't blame him. And as much as he wanted to march up to him sometimes, _do_ something to show how he felt, he always lacked that extra something to actually get on with it. The outcome could truly be frightening.

He blinked and was surprised to be met by a door. He was in the unused area of the castle again, the part where there were heaps of disused rooms that plenty of people could get lost in for hours. And he was certain that the room beyond the door was another of these rooms. The difference between this door and the others, though, was that there was a flicker of light against the floor underneath it. It was slight, and he had to squint his eyes and actually concentrate on what he was looking for before he saw it again, but yes, there. It was the unmistakable flicker of candle, and he lifted a hand to push against the door, let it swing open.

"Knew you were coming."

Grayson's lips caught up at one side, and he shuffled into the room, pausing only once to shut the door once more. "Knew you were waiting."

Walking into the room was one of the easiest things he'd done throughout the entire night. He hadn't even hesitated as he parted the barrier separating them. It was an instinct, a need, something his subconscious mind knew he had to do. He furrowed his brow wonderingly. He was just doing as he was instructed. He was now hyper-aware of how he acted around Damien, and it was weird. He'd never had this problem before. Fuck you, masochistic mind.

"What are you doing?"

This was asked when the tip of his baby toe managed to collide with a chair. 'It lept out of nowhere!' danced on the tip of his tongue, but no. That was stupid, and he didn't want to be called an idiot just then. "Sleeping." That was simple. It didn't make sense because he was obviously still awake and Damien was well aware of that, but he didn't call him out of it.

"Don't disturb me, then."

He was sitting just as he'd pictured he would, leant forward, neck curved, hair falling around his lovely face as his fingers etched in the workings of his mind onto paper. He didn't glance up, which was well enough. He hadn't wanted to deal with letting him see how... vulnerable and open he was right now. He didn't need to see how horribly sleep deprived he was, or how the protective shell - however thin - he normally had up wasn't there. That the look he was giving him now wouldn't be covered up at all if he did.

But he waited too long. His brain had finally turned off of auto-pilot and forgot to make his feet move. It was no longer making his movement decisions for him, so his immobility had drawn Damien's attention. He met his eyes, but his face was perfectly masked. He couldn't read what he thought of his expression. He didn't even know how to explain what he was feeling, either. What did he see? Was he obvious? Could he tell just by looking at him what he really wanted to do?

The moment dragged on and on, neither breaking the gaze, unmoving. The thing was, he wasn't feeling uncomfortable at all. In fact, he felt right at home. None of this was wrong; if it was, he wouldn't be feeling as good as he did, would he?

Before he could change his mind, he abruptly moved forward, shoving Damien's things out of the way. He sunk to his knees and slid his arms around his shoulders in the same fluid moment, and brought his face down to his in the following second.

Remember his bad habit with impulse? Well, this was one of those moments. Luckily for him, though, this wasn't one of the bad ones. Damien returned the pressure of his kiss, lips moving with his, and a hand lightly placed under his chin.

He withdrew as quickly as Grayson had started it, and he told himself to be good. He remained where he was, arms to himself and his hands dutifully clasped in his lap. He was grinning almost triumphantly, though, watching as Damien retrieved his scattered papers and resumed his homework.

"I just told you not to disturb me," he commented, and Grayson marveled at how Damien was so calm after being so viciously attacked. He did well enough not to giggle giddily, himself, so once more he considered Damien above and beyond all things.

"Got it." This time he made due with his promise, for when he situated himself on the couch a few moments later, he was sound asleep.


End file.
